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Daniel sat down. She certainly wasn’t Isabel Mason. She had the same glorious red hair, rippling down to swirl around her shoulders. And the same features, though there was something stronger about the bone structure of her face, a cleaner, sharper definition. The most striking difference came from within. This woman’s mind had a brutal force that was light-years removed from the soft, pliable femininity he’d seen emanating from Neil Mason’s wife.
He watched her mouth as she spoke. Words were shaped with precision, her lips firmly sculptured, not a trace of quivering uncertainty. He listened to what she said, fascinated by the cool, clear logic of her story. Brick by brick, she laid a convincing foundation for her convincing conclusion. It was a formidable performance.
He’d no sooner thought the word performance than she looked at him again, another stunning blaze that dared him to challenge anything she said. It promised she’d wipe the floor with him.
Daniel said nothing. He was too intrigued to want to do anything but watch her. She was magnificent. A unique entity. He’d never met anyone like her.
She wore black, a ribbed sweater that moulded superbly rounded breasts. A short, narrow skirt revealed long, shapely legs, sexily emphasised in black tights. She was tall, a good fit for him. What would it feel like to be entwined with a woman who was fired with an incredible store of secret energy? That could be an adventure worth having.
He’d like to know the rest of her, too.
She had everyone else bluffed.
Barry couldn’t have done it better himself, and he’d been a genius at sliding out of sticky spots. The story was completely sanitised of sex. The only scandal emerging from it would be a political one, and that had been brewing anyway.
Bravo, Annabel Parker!
The truth—whatever it was—was successfully skittled.
Daniel knew she was lying.
CHAPTER THREE
FREEDOM...
Annabel heaved a contented sigh. It was marvellous not to be constantly on guard. She revelled in the sense of tranquillity that flowed from this beautiful place in far north Queensland, thousands of kilometres away from the frenzy of scandals still breaking in Sydney. From this corner of her cabin, where only an insect screen separated her from the primitive splendour on view, she could gaze out over the lush rainforest to the sea and feel blissfully removed from the corrupt touch of mankind.
It was an illusion, of course. The cabin was part of a wilderness tourist resort built to capitilise on precisely this feeling. Nevertheless, great care had been taken to nestle it into the environment. None of the buildings was intrusive. They didn’t spoil. This was the only place on the planet where two world heritage wonders met—the Great Barrier Reef and the Daintree Rainforest—and the Coconut Beach Rainforest Resort offered the experience of both within a context of personal comfort.
The only sounds were made by birds and animals. No television or telephones in the guest accommodation. No newspapers. Even the people here went about their activities in a quiet and unobtrusive manner. Peace...sheer heaven to Annabel.
The weeks since Barry Wolfe’s death had been hectic and highly stressful. Thankfully, that was all behind her—the frantic substitution of herself for Isabel at the motel on that fatal night, the tension involved in giving a formal statement to the police, the seemingly endless inquisition by the media. Annabel felt she had more than earned this escape from the pressure of having to perform.
Izzie was surely safe now. They could both relax. If the photograph taken of her twin sister and Barry Wolfe entering the motel room could have disproved Annabel’s account of events, it would have surfaced when the news was hot. Or been used for blackmail before this. The danger was gone. Neil Mason would never find out that his wife had flirted with infidelity. Barry Wolfe was dead and buried.
Annabel ruefully reflected that she hadn’t wished him dead in the physical sense, yet she couldn’t regret his passing. The world was a cleaner place for it. Getting cleaner by the day down in Sydney, where the cover-ups were unravelling without any assistance from her.
Maybe it had been overly squeamish of her not to capitalise on the article she had written. Her editor had almost been frothing at the mouth for it. She’d worked so hard at putting the Barry Wolfe corruption story together, and it had probably been unprofessional not to go through with it, yet when it came to the point of deciding on publication the morning after his death, it had felt like overkill—brutal, unfeeling, unnecessary.
The man was dead. Not only that, she and her sister had been caught up in the circumstances surrounding his death. It made it all too personal, somehow. Besides, there was no moral gain in a public demolition of Barry Wolfe’s career when that career had died with him.
Definitely overkill.
She didn’t need that kind of professional kudos. She had only ever wanted the truth to come out so the corruption would come to an end. Which it had.
Although she had held back the damning article, she had been pressed into referring to her work on it, with the media demanding the reason for her meeting with Barry Wolfe in what was perceived as a clandestine manner. That in itself, plus details of her research, had raised enough questions to trigger an investigation.
Ironically, the finance minister’s death had exposed his cronies in corruption. Without his strong front to protect them, they were scrambling to explain their activities to the new minister, who was demanding accountability in no uncertain terms.
But Annabel didn’t have to think about any of it any more. The desired result had been achieved. She could breathe in this gloriously fresh air and simply enjoy herself.
Twilight was bleaching the sea of colour. It was time to walk down to the Long House near the beach for dinner. Although the paths were adequately lit, she preferred to go before darkness fell, to savour the ambience of the forest around her in its softer evening mood.
Her cabin was situated high on the hill, perched on stilts to counter the steep gradient. When she had arrived yesterday, the porter had commented on its isolation, wondering if it worried her. Annabel smiled over his concern as she locked the door behind her and started down the steps from the porch. Being left alone was precisely what she wanted.
The path that served her cabin also wound around the next, which was seven or eight metres distant and at a slightly lower level. Yesterday it had been vacant. The door opened as she was about to pass by, drawing her curiosity. New guests or one of the staff?
The man who emerged blasted her light-heartedness. Recognition was instant, rocking her with shock. Her feet faltered to a halt. The smile lingering on her lips sagged into a gasp of dismay. Her mind reeled against accepting the reality of his physical presence here.
“Good evening,” he said, offering the casual grace of a fellow guest, lending substance to the form, chasing away any chance he was a mirage.
Daniel Wolfe!
Barry Wolfe’s brother!
In the cabin next to hers!
Annabel couldn’t believe in coincidence. A convulsive shiver ran down her spine as she remembered him sitting in the motel room while her statement was taken down by the police, watching her recount how and when his brother had died and what she’d done about it. He hadn’t said a word, but his eyes had drilled into her with riveting concentration, raising the eerie sense that she was the accused in a witness box.
The fire in her belly to see real justice done had surged into a blaze of challenge that seared a silent but highly electric path between them. Not me, my friend. Her eyes had spoken in fierce rebuttal of anything he could do to her. You won’t get to me any more than your brother did.
He hadn’t then.
She hadn’t let him.
But now?
“Good evening,” she returned, struggling to mount defences and establish a calm stand-off in this surprise encounter.
His mouth curved into a whimsical smile. “We have been introduced.”
She summoned up an ironic response. “I remember it well.”
His eyes didn’t smile. Neither did hers. They appraised each other in a silence that sizzled with undercurrents.
In the days after his brother’s death, Annabel had been highly conscious of Daniel Wolfe, reading his reported comments with considerable apprehension and watching him interviewed on television. He didn’t raise questions. He posed no problem to her. Yet still she had felt a threat, as she did now.
The camera had reflected the austere elegance of the man, the strong, classically-boned face, the touch of grey at the temples lending a distinguished air to conventionally cut coal-black hair, the tall, broad-shouldered physique clothed in tailored perfection, the aura of control that came with sharply honed intelligence. It had not captured the cold blast of his power to dominate.
Warm charm had been Barry Wolfe’s personal trademark.
His brother exuded icy, unshakable command.
A wolf in sheep’s clothing tonight, Annabel thought, dismissing the casual image of blue jeans and a dark red sports shirt. The pretence of being on vacation did not wear with her. The laserlike grey eyes were at work trying to strip her of control and strike at any vulnerability he could find.
Her white pants-suit felt flimsy. She needed a steel-plated coat of armour against this man. The soft balminess of the evening suddenly developed a chill. Her arms prickled with goose bumps, despite the long-sleeved overblouse she’d worn in case it was cooler on the walk to her cabin after dinner.
“I much prefer the circumstances of this meeting,” he said, as though offering her a truce.
“I was thinking what a small world it is,” she replied, the suspicion growing that he had followed her here. Which meant he’d had her under surveillance. For what purpose? was the million-dollar question.
“Growing smaller all the time,” he agreed. “Do you mind if I walk with you?”
She shrugged. “Why not?” Better to have him beside her than behind her.
She got her feet working again, and he caught up with her in a few strides. They settled into an easy stroll. The path zigzagged down the hill and was wide enough for there to be no difficulty in avoiding contact. Annabel kept well apart from her unwelcome companion, too intensely aware of him for her comfort. He emanated a more aggressive maleness than she’d met in any other man. It was unnerving, giving the feeling she was threatened on more than one level.
Why did he, of all men, make her feel overly conscious of being a woman? No one could ever have described her as a fragile flower. She was well above average height, with a frame that held generous curves in pleasing proportion and long legs that were strong and athletic from regular gym workouts. His legs, she couldn’t help noticing, were longer and stronger, and he was a head taller than she was. Everything about him seemed to put her at a disadvantage.
“Is your sister here, too?”
He asked the question lightly, a seemingly innocuous inquiry. Annabel’s inner tension leapt to red alert. Why would he ask about Isabel? To all intents and purposes she and her twin led very separate lives. How did he even know about Isabel?
A bit of probing might be profitable, Annabel decided. She gave him a puzzled look. “Why would you imagine I’d have my sister with me?”
He shrugged. “Twins—identical twins—are very close, aren’t they? Perfectly natural to stick together.”
There was something very ominous about that knowing little speech. To her perhaps oversensitive mind it suggested he suspected the sister swap. Yet why should he?
“My sister has a husband and three children,” Annabel dryly informed him. “We gave up sharing a bed before we went to school.”
His mouth twitched in amusement. “I take it you’re alone on this trip.”
“I happen to like my own company,” she said with pointed emphasis.
“Yes,” he agreed affably, letting the hint to leave her alone slide right past him. “You come over as unusually self-sufficient. It’s quite intriguing, given you’re a twin. Are you the older or the younger?”
The harping on twins needled her. “Does age prove anything?”
“I wondered if the stronger was born first.”
Annabel had no compunction in tossing the quiz back at him. “Did you find that in your family?” She knew he was the younger brother. Barry Wolfe had been forty-two when he’d died. She remembered reading that the brilliant barrister was six years his junior.
His eyes flashed mocking appreciation for the neat bit of fencing. “If you’re comparing me to Barry, it doesn’t really apply. We were both firstborns. To different mothers.”
Only half-brothers! “Your father was widowed?” she asked, curious about his family situation.
“No. Divorced.”
That answered a lot of questions. Barry Wolfe had probably played his divorced parents against each other, learning to double-deal at a very early age and using his considerable charm to get away with it. Whereas Daniel Wolfe undoubtedly grew up enjoying the united focus of both parents. It did make for differences, she decided, apart from those arising from separate genetic pools.
“Were you very close to your half-brother?” she asked, wanting to know his motive for this supposedly accidental encounter with her. Affection? Loyalty? Pride? A wish to clear his family name? Tarnishing hers and Isabel’s would not achieve that, but it could muddy the issue and throw doubt on her integrity.
“We were never what you might call close,” he answered slowly, “but his company was always lively and interesting when we did get together. Barry was very likable.”
His stock in trade, Annabel thought cynically, wishing her sister hadn’t been drawn in by it. Although she could understand the attraction, the wicked appeal of a sexy seducer. After eleven years of marriage to Neil Mason—so upright and unimaginative he probably never deviated from the missionary position—Isabel could have been ripe for some creative attention. Annabel inwardly groaned every time she heard Neil pompously declare there was a time and place for everything.
“I shall miss him.”
The rueful note in Daniel Wolfe’s voice jolted her. He was human, after all. Not the cold, calculating machine she’d been building him into. It also forced her to realise she shouldn’t be judging Barry Wolfe as nothing but a two-faced rat.
There had been many sides to him. Despite his crookedness and lack of conscience about it, he’d been a very popular personality. He’d coloured people’s lives. Perhaps that was valued more highly than integrity by people who overlooked anything if they were being entertained by lively company.
“I’m sorry,” she said impulsively, then frowned over what seemed an insincerity. She didn’t regret Barry Wolfe’s death, though she was sorry about the loss his brother felt. Family was family, however black the sheep.
She felt Daniel Wolfe’s sharp glance at her. Disbelief? Scepticism? She kept her gaze trained ahead, telling herself she was wasting sympathy on him. He was out to get her. Something was niggling him and he wouldn’t rest until he had the answers he wanted.
They passed the bridge that led to the administration centre. Annabel thought about checking out of the resort. It wasn’t far to Port Douglas. Plenty of facilities there to give her a pleasant vacation. If Daniel Wolfe followed her, she’d know for certain he was pursuing a purpose.
“The last time I saw him was at a fund-raiser for his political party,” he said in quiet reminiscence. “Barry was in top form that night, working the crowd for hefty donations. I enjoyed watching him. He had a knack of making people feel good. Their faces lit up.”
Annabel kept her mouth firmly shut. They’d reached the parking area below the administrative building. She mentally measured the distance to the Long House. Only another five minutes until she could effect a reasonable parting from this troublesome man.
“I saw him talking to your sister.”
Alarm bells clanged through her mind. She clenched her teeth. No comment was the safest course. Let him spill out what he knew about Isabel.
“She seemed very taken with him.”
Her heart turned over. Had the sexual signals been obvious? Surely Isabel hadn’t been too indiscreet, or had she thought herself unobserved? Whatever suspicions Daniel Wolfe harboured, damage control had to be put in place. The need to divert this man’s dangerously acute perception, colour it differently, was immediate and critical.
She summoned up a fond smile and said, “Isabel responds warmly to everyone. She’s the perfect political wife for Neil. It balances his tendency towards aloofness.”
He ruminated over that as they crossed the public road that cut through the resort. Then he startled her by asking, “Have you always been protective of your sister?”
“Whatever made you think that?” she demanded, her eyes wide and innocent.
“Steel and putty.”
“I beg your pardon?”
He shook his head at her show of incomprehension. “You’re a very smart lady, Annabel Parker. Quite the most tantalising woman I’ve ever met. So many layers to peel.”
“You’ve lost me.”
“No.” A ruthless glint in his eyes. “You’re with me. Every step of the way.”
Annabel had the sense of a trap closing inexorably around her. Rebellion stirred. She stopped in the middle of the parking lot for passing tourists who wanted a drink or a meal in the Long House. There was no incoming or outgoing traffic. She stood stock-still, defying his assertion.
He stopped, too. He turned to her, one eyebrow raised in mocking challenge. “Something wrong?”
“Has anyone ever told you you’re insufferably arrogant?”
He grinned. The transformation of his face from hard authority to dazzling magnetism was mesmerising. “Have you noticed how politicians always descend to personal abuse when they don’t have a good argument to defend their position?”
It took several seconds for the implication of his words to register. “I wasn’t arguing or defending anything. I was stating the literal truth,” she insisted tersely, fighting the compelling attraction of eyes sparkling with teasing lights.
“Ah, the truth!” He spoke with relish. “Are you afraid of it, Annabel?”
